Twenty-four months.
Seven hundred and thirty days spent trying to burn Kit Meyer from my skin. Hundreds of hours spent transferring my scars to wood just so I could breathe. Just so I could run my fingers over something rougher than the sleek print of a photo. So my memories could haunt me somewhere outside of my head.
Now I feel the press of his smile on my skin as I trail my fingers lazily up and down his spine, just to feel him shiver against me.
If I could burn the way the golden morning light illuminates his eyes, making them warm honey and lush forest green, I would. Though no medium could capture the depths of his stare, so I look back, willing my brain to memorize every detail of his face. Every freckle. The exact shade of his berry, kiss-bitten mouth, and the pretty pink of his flushed cheeks.
I want them all locked away. Just in case.
His hair is still damp from the water when I sink my fingers into the light brown waves on top of his head. The satisfaction I get from his hitched breath when I grip gently at the roots is maddening.
I don't know how the fuck I didn't see it. Didn't see this. Why did it take seeing him broken down and bleeding out in grief for me to finally, unquestionably, get it?
There is a reason I've always been drawn to him. A reason that his pulling away from me bent and broke me in ways I was still too close-minded to understand as a teen. Kit was way ahead of me for a long time. Time I wish I could get back.
My gut tightens at the pure relief on his face when I cup his cheek. The bitter taste of apologies I should have spoken years ago sits heavy on my tongue. I don't say a word when I roll us back over, sheet tangled around our legs.
I hope he can feel it in the reverent drag of my calloused hands over his body. I hope he can taste the truth I've been too cowardly to explain straight from my lips. I want him to look in my eyes and know, without a shadow of doubt, that he's all I want.
Now. Then. He's all I've ever wanted.
I swallow his gasps, consume his every exhale, and revel in the burn of blunt nails down my back. He's soft and pliant under my fingertips, muscles quivering from my touch.
I want to take him apart, over and over again. Just to put him back together. I want him sobbing in my sheets and crying my name in ways that have nothing to do with want and everything to do with having. I want him to have me.
Again.
“Boe,” Kit breaks from my lips to moan, fingers digging into my skin like he's terrified I'll disappear if he loosens his hold. I don't want him to. I want him to mark my body. I want to swipe the steam from the mirrortomorrow and remember exactly the places he had his hands. His mouth. I want them branded on my fucking skin.
The forward glide of my hips has Kit's wide eyes blazing. “Please,” he says on a shallow breath.
“Please what, kitten?” My gravelly voice has his body shuddering under me. Or maybe it's the way I rub my cock against his, both of us hard like we didn't just do this not even fifteen minutes ago.
Kit huffs, moaning again when I thrust against him. The bedroom smells like lake water and sex. I want the whole damn cabin to smell like us. I wait, sucking at his throat, but Kit never was good at spitting out what he wants, was he?
I take him with me, rolling onto my back. The pillow cushions my head, and his slender hands brace on my chest.
I take my hands off his hips one at a time, tucking them behind my head. I refuse the smirk that threatens to pull at my mouth.
Kit's confusion is evident in his scrunched nose and eyes looking back and forth between mine. “Why'd you stop?”
“Figured since you won't say what you want, you can show me instead. Unless you just want to pout?”
He pushes up on my chest, warm thighs falling on either side of my hips. He's looking down at me like I'm suddenly a bomb, and he has no fucking clue how to disarm me. I fist the hair at my nape so hard it stings. I'd very much like to flip him back over and show him exactly what I want.
Hesitant hands hover over my chest, whispering over my nipples. “Boe, I don’t…” He huffs again, chewing on his lip. It's painful to watch him struggle. He was just touching me. “I'm not… I don't know what you're comfortable with here. I'm not what you're…used to, and—”
Oh, fuck that.
Snatching him up around the waist, I move to the edge of the bed and stand with him clinging to me. I grab the bottle of lube and pad into thebathroom, only setting him down once we're standing in front of the big mirror over the sink.
Kit’s eyes are wide, looking at me standing over his shoulder.
Any thread of humor is gone, replaced with a singular focus. Somehow, chasing him after kissing him didn't do the trick. Fucking him didn't do it either, apparently.
“Who are you?”
His breath hitches, “Kit.”
